


objects in space

by prickledheart



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (but its pretty unclear/doesnt matter.), Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:48:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prickledheart/pseuds/prickledheart
Summary: Technoblade will pick his head up tomorrow, metaphorical crown unbudging, but tonight, he knows he cannot play king.(There is no one to perform for, anyway.)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	objects in space

**Author's Note:**

> don’t show this to the creators. based off of techno’s potrayal in dsmp+other fics around i’ve read and self projection.  
> please be safe, and pay attention to the tags. thank you.
> 
> (also, this is kind of different than my other fics. not sure i like it as much but i don’t want to look at this anymore lol.)

He is sitting in his bathroom, lights off, as he wonders how everyone else does it.

There are things he’ll never understand, things he’ll never do, interactions he’ll never have, and he wonders how everyone else does it.

The candle sitting on the counter illuminates Technoblade’s pathetic form, and he’s thankful for his own foresight; to look at himself in the mirror would be a poor one.

Along with the candle, there’s a few objects that alone wouldn’t draw suspicion, but together paint an alarming picture. It’s a rarity he’s home alone, and he wishes it hadn’t come to this anyway, but it’s convenient at worst.

The vodka he nurses stings, less due to the alcohol and more the flavoring of it, but he chases it down with a slightly too cold sip of soda. This would be fine, he thinks, if he weren’t underage, but no one noticed the Vodka missing from their small liquor cabinet, anyway. (No one would expect him to be able to reach it, let alone have been able to find the key. He should fall short in both aspects, but for once he defies expectations no one ever set for him to achieve.)

The razor itself, too, isn’t a threat, at least until it’s in his poorly intentioned hands. It’s been years, since his first episodes, reluctantly sticking his toes into the drowning pond of mental illness, but the old habits don’t fade; they never do. He takes the simple, everyday object and slides it across his skin, feeling and seeing nothing as it moves. Logically, Technoblade knows he should be wincing in pain, cringing like the first time he had accidentally nicked his skin when shaving, but all he wants is the release of pain it brings him.

It takes ten more times, at least, to dull his own stubborn feelings and truly see the redness that is left behind. He switches to yet another blade, one of many he’s wrestled out of a pencil sharpener, and at least that one hurts a little bit more. Neither draw the amount of blood he wishes they would, but maybe that’s for the best. (It’s what he wants to think, at least. Even though he fears it everytime, he almost wishes he would cut too deep one of these occasions.)

Technoblade takes another shot, straight from the neck of the bottle, and hesitates just a bit too long to avoid having to taste it properly. It’s unfortunate, but it happens; he just wishes the effect was as strong as the adversity he felt towards it. (Despite this animosity he feels, it’s still always within arms reach. Even after months in a shoe box under his bed, he hasn’t returned it to the locked cabinet. He probably never will, especially considering how low the liquid is running nowadays.)

There’s no sweet release, despite what he feels; instead of the twisted catharsis he’s seeking, he somehow just feels worse. Perhaps it’s the sense of guilt, knowing what he’s done to himself (and in a way, to others around him), but he’s not sure. He hardly felt guilt nowadays, to be fair.

He hardly felt anything at all, to be more honest.

Pushing himself back from his sitting position on the floor, Technoblade lays on the cool tile floor and stares up at the ceiling. It’s a view he never quite admires, even when he’s laying there exhausted before a shower, and he wonders how that is after all the years he’s spent in this house.

 _I should be happy,_ he thinks, but he is not, and he knows he cannot have that privelege.

Tommy will get upset, later, when he discovers the cookies their older brother bought him at the convenience store are gone, but Technoblade eats them anyway. Wilbur will take pity on them both by keeping Tommy off his case with another purchase, free of charge to both of them, so there’s no real consequence, nothing to lose. Technoblade is used to disappointing, so he will think nothing of when Wilbur looks at him with saddened eyes. It is all he’s good for, after all- taking pity on. (The cookies are dry and taste like nothing, but he still shovels them into his mouth, to chase some kind of happiness he knows he can not have. As expected, they don’t bring it.)

His legs are marred once again, and he wonders how no one ever figures it out. It should be suspicious, for him to always wear some sort of long sleeves and pants, even in the summer, but his family never questions, never judges. They’re too trusting in him for their own good, and while Technoblade knows it’s well intentioned, he almost wishes they were pushier. He almost wishes they would come home, see him as he is, and intervene, to force him into the help he himself cannot seek. (Keyword, almost. Even though he knows it’s wrong, he’s used to dodging questions that could pose a threat, and he reassures them far too well how fine he is.)

The truth is, he values his time like this. Private moments with him and him alone, to do with himself as he chooses. Red gel on his skin makes him smile, oddly enough, as does the warming feeling the vodka eventually provides. He finds as soon as he’s buzzed off of both, that there’s some kind of pleasure in the sweets he’s indulged in, too. Though he knows he’ll hate himself for it in the morning when he steps on the scale, he doesn’t mind in the moment. (It’s just another way he’ll hurt himself, but he’ll fix it later. He always does.)

If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s the game of self sabotage- he is crowned the winner every time, by the haze that follows him the next day as he barely stumbles out of bed to continue living. It’s always a chore, but it must be done; despite his own inflicted harm, he knows he has to keep going. Technoblade will pick his head up tomorrow, metaphorical crown unbudging, but tonight, he knows he cannot play king. 

(There is no one to perform for, anyway.)

**Author's Note:**

> i hate blueberry vodka.


End file.
